Laugh With The Sinners, Cry With The Saints
by CagedTroll
Summary: No matter what life dishes out for them, no matter what they're forced to suffer through, John won't let his boys be taken from him.


Disclaimer. It all belongs to other people, the lucky bastards. Even the title.

Mostly pre-series. Slight spoilers for **Home** and **AHLB2**.

Well, it's… experimental. It's a new style that I don't think is gonna stick; it's really rather blunt and non-descriptive. And coming from me, that's saying something. ;) But I _am_ rather pleased with the ending. Like I said, it's an experiment. And experiments need feedback. Please?

* * *

**Laugh With The Sinners, Cry With The Saints

* * *

**

It's been three months, almost four, when John catches Dean doing it for the first time. He's still in shock, still can't quite believe what Missouri has revealed to him. He isn't being a good father to either of his boys, he knows it. He can't help it though, he's just, somewhere, deep down, grateful that Dean copes better than he does. He feeds Sammy and changes him. He doesn't talk much but he sings. He sits with Sammy in his arms, bottle in his hand, humming Johnny Cash. John knows what his son is doing the moment he hears the first few bars, because it's what _he_ does. Used to do. He can't sing and sure as hell doesn't know any more child-appropriate songs, so he takes what he knows. It worked on Dean fine and seems to work on Sam, too, because the boy is awake and not fussing for the first time in what feels like eternity. John can't stop himself, he gathers his boys into his arms and squeezes as tightly as he can without crushing them, but he can't answer the question Dean's worried eyes.

Frightened tears roll down the boy's face and Sammy's fussing starts up again, but John can't bring himself to let go. Not yet. Not yet.

* * *

Sammy's kindergarten teacher is less than thrilled about her newest charge. He never stops asking questions and his need for explanations is insatiable, clearly wants to be the center of attention. He's a braggart, too. He goes on and on about how great his brother and father are, whatever gave him that idea. An active imagination in a child is fine, she says, even if she doesn't look like she means it, but Samuel is clearly out of line. And bloodying Marc the firefighter's son's nose in the discussion about whose father is the bigger hero is completely unacceptable. 

John bears her tirade, her haughty stare at his torn jeans and stubbled beard, her snippy tone silently. She reminds him too much of his own teachers to say anything.

He has her lead her over to where Sammy is fidgeting in the uncomfortable seat of the time-out chair. The relief and worry that flood his son's face at the sight of him go directly under his skin, and he can't not go over and hug his baby boy right now. He holds him tightly, listens to Sammy's quaking voice, tells him no, he isn't in any trouble. The teacher opens her mouth but that does it. He covers Sammy's small ears with his hands and tells her what he really thinks of her, what she can go do for all he cares.

He never tells Sam what he said but he feels good about himself all the way home.

* * *

School is a bitch for Winchesters, that's just the way it is. Dean does everything he can to get around reading, might be something with his eyes, but his third-grade teacher isn't actually interested in helping the boy. When he snidely remarks that Dean might be better off in a school for the learning impaired, John wants to break his nose, but Sammy does it for him. The man sputters and coughs but John leaves him where he is, on the floor of his own classroom, without looking back. He holds Dean all night while the boy sobs against his chest, embarrassed and angry and hurt. Sammy sits close-by, confused by Dean's behavior but he pats Dean's hand and sheds a few tears, as well, because that's what brothers do.

* * *

Sammy's seventh birthday is spent in the backseat of the Impala, shoving and bickering and close to tears. They have to hurry, something is killing women in southern Florida. No time for a cake, no time for candles. Not even for a wish, which is probably the problem, because Sammy _always_ gets a wish.

Dean hits Sammy's shoulder and Sammy kicks Dean's shin.

John resists the urge to knock their heads together.

Dean pinches Sammy's thigh.

Sammy tries to bite Dean's fingers.

John pulls over and barks at them both to quit it, or else.

They jump and pale, sliding away from each other, staring out at the fields passing them by. John can see Sammy crying in the rearview mirror, stifling the sound with his sleeve.

They're both still subdued and quiet when they when they stop for burgers and fall asleep soon after, turned away from each other, curled up against their windows. It's going on eleven when John stops at a small lake nestled between hills and trees. The skies are clear; there are shooting stars, more than John has ever seen before. He lets Dean sleep, rouses Sam gently and wraps him in a blanket. He leans against the hood of the car with his son in his arms, points up at the sky. He explains about how wishing on shooting stars works just as well as wishing on candles, yes, really.

Sammy's face is still streaked with dried tears but he smiles, mouth slightly open. They wait for a big one, a special one, before Sam clenches his eyes shut, face scrunched up like a chipmunk's. John kisses his wrinkled forehead and stares up at the stars, stays motionless until long after his baby' fallen asleep.

* * *

Dean, at thirteen, is invited to his classmate Sheila's slumber party along with about three other guys and at least twenty giggling pre-teen girls. John has to pick him up early the next day because there are strange disappearances around Lake Michigan and they really have to go. He forgets about that for a moment, though, when he walks into the living room to find the entire party and Sheila's Dad watching his son. Dean's sitting at the kitchen table, facing away from it, eyes turned upwards in concentration. The scattered pieces of Sheila's Dad's handgun are on the table and Dean's hands are behind his back, putting it back together. Apparently, the ensemble had watched _Last Action Hero_ the evening before which resulted in a discussion about weapons which results in Dean setting a new record for himself. The hubbub and giggling are hard to bear and John seizes the first opportunity to grab his kid and bolt, explaining to Sheila's Dad about the Marine Corps and how old habits die hard and how they _really_ have to go. 

He knows he should scold the kid for being so reckless but Dean's smile is so broad, so proud that he can't bring himself to say anything. Instead, he listens to his son telling him about playing Truth Or Dare, how he was kissed seven times and had to kiss four, and really, that's not a bad quota for one evening. John has to turn his head so Dean doesn't see him snicker because he still remembers that time his kid ran away, screaming, from the-girl-next-door Lisa, claiming she had rabies.

* * *

At fourteen, baby Sammy is a real piece of work. Every other word is "no". He's spoiling for a fight the minute John has to drag the covers away from him in the morning right up to the moment John threatens to put him into bed himself because the word "curfew" doesn't seem to feature in his extensive vocabulary. Orders are questioned on principle, just because he can. Somehow, the little moppet of adoration evolved into the nightmare teenager straight out of a parent's guidebook. 

Still, John smiles when Sam flops down on the couch next to him, because the kid is adorable. His feet are the size of small boats and his limbs look like they've been through a torture rack, but still, the kid is adorable. He slides his tongue between his teeth when he concentrates, brows furrowed in the most earnest expression. His eyes are huge and sensitive, have females from all age groups ogling all over him.

Right now, they flicker to where Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, science book propped against the milk carton in a half-assed attempt at studying. He's reading, though; the coast is clear. Sammy seizes the opportunity, scoots closer immediately. He burrows under John's arm, nose first, but because his father isn't sure what to do with 130 lbs. of teenager pressing against his side, he eases his head down, laying it to rest on his thigh. Books and notes are easily transferred to the other and he can keep reading while he stroke's Sam's curls. The boy stares into space, content. Neither of them says anything, because words are unnecessary when his little rebel wants to cuddle.

* * *

Dean is the center of attention, always. He's won every single pool game tonight and is now flanked by two brunettes, sisters from the looks of it, who are both eager to position themselves in a way that allows him to glance down their shirts easily. A blonde is trying to flirt while she massages his shoulders and a fourth girl is leaning across the table, hanging on every word he utters. 

John grins to himself. He doesn't mind as long as Dean is careful, and the boy is; John told him to be. Right now, a little R&R is more important than keeping their profile low and their heads clear. Their last case was a success, had actually earned them some cash. John's almost forgotten how good it feels to be rewarded for your hard work and he enjoys handing over the money to pay for their beers. He makes his way through the crowd packed tight in the dodgy room. He avoids the small scuffles that occasionally break out around him, but just as he reaches across the table to hand Dean his bottle, a more-than-tipsy biker takes a too sudden turn and crashes against him, knocking John's elbow into one brunette's back.

He's about to apologize when she glances over her shoulder and tells him to watch it. That in itself sends annoyance tingling down John's spine, but she probably shouldn't have called him an old man.

Dean shoves her off his lap before John even has a chance to react and for a moment, he's afraid his boy is about to slap her. He places one hand on Dean's arm, feels his anger cool as the boy stills obediently. He's still tense, yes, but not about to do anything rash – not anymore. Instead, the kid yanks the tissues with phone numbers out of his pocket and shoves them into hers, all of them.

John almost chuckles as he pushes Dean towards the exit. He contemplates feeling sorry for the girl, seeing how she now has to face the wrath of every female who gave her number to Dean tonight. But she doesn't, not really. The only thing he feels is pride at the loyalty Dean has for him and their whacked-out family. He digs into his pocket as they feel the rush of cool night air around them. Pulling out the keys, he figures the smile on Dean's face as he tosses them to him is almost worth being called "old".

* * *

Sammy spends Christmas Eve alone at Stanford. His dorm room is dark and empty. There are very few people staying over the holidays and Sam's room is definitely the least festive. There's no tree, no presents. In true Winchester fashion, Sam's Christmas is bleak and a little shabby, not a season of love and joy but rather heartbreak and sorrow. 

He's invited to several fanciful Christmas dinners with goose and wine and holly tomorrow, John knows that. He'll sit at a long table, laugh and joke and pretend not to feel out of place. But right now his baby is sitting on the bed in the darkness of his room, fisting his eyes to keep from crying.

John has to look away. He reaches into his coat pocket, feeling for his present. It's practical, really, and Sam will probably think it's from Dean, but he wants nothing more than to have his boy protected and this is the only way he knows how. He places the package on the ground and walks away, forces himself to walk away, leaving behind his miserable son and a pack of Morton on the doorstep.

* * *

He can see the shock in their eyes, it doesn't matter. He's smiling, crying, he's never been more proud of his boys. They're grown now, hunters, deadly. There's blood on their faces and clothes but they're still his boys, the little boys he's held and scolded and always loved. It's okay now, it is. He sees the understanding in their eyes as he steps back. He's scared of what's coming now, he is, but he keeps his eyes on them until the last second, even when he feels himself letting go.

* * *

John snaps his eyes open to darkness. The room around him is cold and dark, reeks of past hurts. He tilts his head slowly to see Sammy standing by his bed. 

Sammy, all but four years old again, clad in white pajamas that give him an eerie, unreal look. His face is wet with his tears as he stares down at him.

"Daddy," he whispers, his voice choked, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

John feels a lump form in his own throat. He wants nothing more than to reach out, to hug him close, to ask him why, but he can't. He doesn't know how.

Dean is in the doorway, the same pajamas. So white, so sacrificial. His eyes are dry and he's smiling, his brave little soldier.

He extends a hand and Sammy steps back to take it because he adores that brother of his, but it's clear he doesn't want to go. His eyes plead with John, beg for him to follow, to stop him, he isn't sure. But it doesn't matter because Dean is holding on too tightly. He won't let go. He wouldn't. Never.

"Don't worry, Dad," he says, still smiling, "I'll take care of Sammy."

He pulls them away, back into the darkness of the hallway, and only then can John move.

He jumps to his feet, calling for them, "Dean!", "Sam!", over and over, and then there's a weight pressing down on him, someone pinning him down, and Mike's voice in his ear.

"They're gone, John. You know that. You have to let them go."

He pushes him off of him roughly, hears the pained gasp as the man collides with something behind him. He steps over to the window, pulls the curtain back slowly. The street is dark and deserted, wet from past rain. There's no one there except a small boy sauntering down the sidewalk with a bundle in his arms. His bare feet splash through puddles but he doesn't mind, isn't paying attention to anything but the baby in his arms. He's humming softly, taking good care of Sammy and he knows it, and John can't do anything but watch as he disappears into the night.

* * *

Mike offers to drive him, walks with him along the quietly winding path. His heart is fast in his chest, his feet like lead. He knows Mike is watching him, trying to act like he isn't, but he pretends not to notice. 

Mike stands back, points. The short walk feels like his last mile, and maybe it is. John walks slowly as the sun smiles down at the back of his neck, mocking him. Every step takes more courage than the one before and when he finally reaches the headstone, his knees are so weak they give way.

There's a small statue of an angel amongst the flowers, irises – Mary's favorites. The letters engraved into the marble are swimming before his eyes, but he knows what they read already.

_Mary Winchester_

_1954 – 1983_

_Beloved wife and mother_

_---_

_Dean Winchester _

_1979 – 1983 _

_Samuel Winchester_

_1983_

_Beloved sons_

Sobs wrack his body as he covers his face with his hands, just a broken man under the warm gaze of the sun.


End file.
